


Once Upon A December

by smuttyandabsurd



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cold War, Historical, M/M, One Shot, Smutlet, modern history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smuttyandabsurd/pseuds/smuttyandabsurd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I will treat you like the dog you are."</p><p>Theirs was a tumultuous relationship.</p><p>Russia/Prussia. Angst. Brief smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon A December

They weren't his hands clad in leather. They weren't his hands doing up the buttons of his overcoat, straightening his tie, smoothing down his shirt collar. They settled on his shoulders now and Ivan smiled lightly into the mirror.

  
"The German Democratic Republic."  
  
Gilbert ignored it when Ivan's arms wrapped around his mid-section.  
  
"You belong to me now…"  
  
The soft murmurings of a lover…  
  
"You are finally mine…"  
  
It chilled him.  
  
"Gilbert Weilschmidt."  
  
Gilbert's eyes snapped to meet Ivan's smile. The smile never reached those cold, violet eyes, narrowed now in cruel mirth.  
  
"I will treat you like the dog you are."  
  
*  
  
How Ivan loved to see that mask of indifference contort in pain. To kiss those lips swollen, have them slacken and part, inviting invasion.  
  
To have those taunting eyes narrow in lust, submit to pleasure.  
  
Always gratifying to coax from Gilbert his suppressed desire.  
  
Ivan never stayed the night. Without a word he would get up and dress, and Gilbert would pretend to sleep, lying on his side with his back turned.  
  
Gilbert would count Ivan's heavy footsteps, wait for the soft click of the door that marked his departure.  
  
Ivan knew better than to say anything.  
  
*  
  
They sat opposite each other, Gilbert slumped over his chair, hands cuffed behind his back, Ivan staring with an unreadable expression.   
  
A table separated them.  
  
Ivan spoke first.  
  
"Why, Gilbert?"  
  
Dark lashes drooped, half-concealing the crimson hue that was a mockery of the socialist cause. He may be beaten, bloodied, bruised, but he remained proud.  
  
There was no reply.  
  
Ivan stood up and knocked on the door. It opened. Ivan nodded to signal he was done.  
  
As he left, Ivan glanced towards Gilbert. The face may be a blank mask, but those crimson eyes betray the fomenting rebellion simmering within.  
  
*  
  
When he heard of the gates opening for the Eastern Berliners, Ivan did not say anything. He knew better than to say anything.


End file.
